Messenger of Truth by Jacqueline Winspear

did something quite brave in the war—after all, it was a risk to do even half of the things she did in order to obtain background information for her dispatches.”
    “Oh, dear, Miss Dobbs, is this an old Girton girl camaraderie? I do hope you haven’t fallen under the spell of the charismatic Georgie Bassington-Hope, I—”
    “Old Girton girl camaraderie? Charismatic? I’m disappointed in you, Inspector.”
    “It was a figure of speech. She uses her buoyant charm to get what she wants, even if that thing she wants is access to dangerous places she has no right to even contemplate entering—and all to write a story.”
    Maisie raised an eyebrow. “To write the truth.”
    Stratton shook his head. “She was a troublemaker, her ‘stories’ undermined the government’s decision to—”
    “But hadn’t the government undermined—”
    “Miss Dobbs, I—”
    “Detective Inspector Stratton, if I am to keep Georgina Bassington-Hope out of your way, to effectively pick up your laundry, then wash and fold it, I should say you owe me a bit more than fifteen minutes in a third-rate caff on Oxford Street.” Though she noticed that Stratton’s cheeks had become flushed, she continued. “I have a few questions for you , if you don’t mind.”
    Stratton looked around at the counter. “I think they’ve just brewed up a fresh urn of tea. Another cup?”
    Maisie nodded. Stratton picked up the cups and walked to the counter. She checked her watch, noting that if she left London by half past eleven, she could feasibly be in Dungeness by half past two. An hour or so of daylight before the grainy dusk of the coast set in.
    “This is a bit better.” He set two cups of tea on the table, pushing one toward Maisie.
    “Thank you.” Maisie reached for her cup, and then looked away as Stratton proceeded to put several teaspoons of sugar into his tea, a habit she had observed before but which set her teeth on edge. She turned back as he moved the sugar to the center of the table. “Now then, I want you to tell me anything you can about Mr. Bassington-Hope’s death; it’s the least you can do if you want me to keep your terrier under control.” She paused. “Oh, and by the way, I must say, though I am familiar with her reputation, she didn’t strike me as a terrier when it came to keeping her first appointment with me. She could barely garner enough courage to go forward with the interview.”
    “I can’t account for the woman’s behavior. However, I anticipated that you wanted to see me regarding this case.” He reached into the large inner pocket of his mackintosh and pulled out an envelope from which he removed several sheets of paper. “You can’t take this with you, but you can peruse the postmortem notes.”
    Maisie reached for the sheets of paper proffered by Stratton, then took several moments to read carefully. Determined not to rush for Stratton’s sake, she opened her document case and removed a few index cards and set them on the table beside her teacup, which she then picked up and held against her cheek until she’d finished reading. She took two or three more sips as she placed the report on the table and flicked through a few pages again, then she set down her cup, reached for a pencil in her case and proceeded to take notes.
    “I say, I haven’t got all day, you know.”
    Maisie smiled. Had he not known her professionally for some time now, Stratton might have thought that he was being manipulated. “Just a moment longer, Detective Inspector.” Maisie completed her notes, then leaned back. “The predictable broken neck, caused by an unfortunate fall at an awkward angle. Death almost instantaneous, according to the examiner. Now then, how about the bruises to the side of the head and to the upper arm. Is the pathologist sure that these indications of trauma are in keeping with the nature of the fall?”
    “Second-guessing the doctor, are you?”
    “I should not have to remind you that, not only